The Father's Journey Part 2

 

By the time I stumbled back out into the rain, the afternoon had dissolved into early evening, and what had started as a gentle drizzle had become a proper downpour. Chester stood where I'd left him, water streaming off his coat, giving me the kind of reproachful look that horses seemed to perfect for occasions like this.

"I know," I muttered, fumbling with the reins. "I know."

The money from the jewelry sales felt heavy in my coat pocket—not nearly enough to solve our problems, but enough to keep us fed and housed for a few more months. Enough to pretend we had time to figure out something better. The whiskey had painted that future in rosier colors than it probably deserved, but for the first time in weeks, I could almost believe we might find a way through this.

Mount and ride. That was all I had to do. Get back on the horse and follow the road home to my family. Simple enough, even with my head spinning from too much drink and too little food.

Except the rain was coming down so hard I could barely see ten feet ahead, and the road I'd traveled a dozen times before seemed to have rearranged itself in my absence. What should have been familiar landmarks were reduced to vague shapes in the storm, and the track that had seemed so clear on the way in now branched and split like the fingers of a grasping hand.

I chose left when I should have chosen right, or perhaps right when I should have gone straight. The whiskey made certainty slippery, and by the time I realized my mistake, I was deep in a part of the forest I didn't recognize.

The trees pressed closer here, their branches forming a canopy so thick that even the rain fell differently—not the steady drumming of an open storm, but a scattered percussion that seemed to come from all directions at once. Mist rose from the forest floor like the breath of sleeping giants, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the sound of running water.

Turn around, common sense whispered. Retrace your steps and find the proper road.

But the path behind me had already disappeared into the mist, as if the forest had closed ranks to prevent retreat. And ahead, barely visible through the gloom, I could see what looked like worked stone—too regular and purposeful to be natural.

Chester balked when I tried to urge him forward, his ears laid back in the universal equine expression of distrust. Horses, I'd always heard, could sense things humans couldn't. Danger, malevolence, the presence of predators that preferred to remain hidden.

But I was drunk and lost and desperate enough to ignore whatever instincts might have been screaming warnings. The stone ahead promised shelter, possibly even help. Someone to give directions, perhaps, or at least a place to wait out the storm.

The mist parted like a curtain as we approached, revealing what could only be described as gates. Not the simple wooden barriers you'd expect to find guarding a country estate, but massive iron constructions that belonged in fairy tales or fever dreams. They towered at least fifteen feet high, wrought in patterns too complex to follow in the dim light, crowned with spikes that looked sharp enough to pierce heaven itself.

And they stood open.

Not just unlatched or carelessly ajar, but thrown wide in a gesture of invitation that felt both welcoming and ominous. As if someone had been expecting me, waiting for this exact moment when a desperate man would stumble out of the storm and into whatever lay beyond.

Chester refused to take another step, planting his feet in the muddy ground with the stubborn determination of an animal who'd decided he'd gone far enough. I could force him through—I was still strong enough for that—but something in his obvious terror gave me pause.

Horses know things, my father used to say. Trust a horse's judgment over your own, especially when you can't see what's frightening them.

Good advice. Sound advice.

Advice I promptly ignored.

I dismounted and led Chester through the gates on foot, my boots squelching in mud that seemed deeper and darker than it should have been. The moment we crossed the threshold, the rain stopped—not gradually, as storms usually ended, but abruptly, as if someone had closed a celestial tap.

The silence that followed was almost worse than the storm had been.

Before us stretched a drive that belonged in a dream or a nightmare, depending on your perspective. Cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of use led up a gentle slope toward what could only be described as a castle. Not the picturesque ruins you might find dotting the Welsh countryside, but a living, breathing fortress that looked like it had been carved from the mountainside itself.

Towers reached toward the cloudy sky like grasping fingers, their windows glowing with warm light that suggested habitation. Battlements crowned the walls in jagged lines that spoke of an age when defense was a daily concern. And over it all hung an air of impossible grandeur, as if time had forgotten this place existed and left it suspended in some earlier, more magical era.

This is wrong, whispered the part of my mind that hadn't been pickled in whiskey. Places like this don't exist anymore. Haven't existed for centuries.

But my eyes insisted otherwise, and my desperation painted the castle in colors that had nothing to do with architecture and everything to do with salvation.